Dear Gilbert
by Anii Midori
Summary: Matthew's life is becoming harder and harder with each day, leaving him in the depths of his own mind. In order to cope with the world around him, he expresses himself in letters to his deceased best friend, Gilbert.
1. November 19, 2012

November 19, 2012

Dear Gilbert,

At the moment, I don't know why I'm taking the time to write a letter to someone who's been dead for six months.

What I do know is that I'm in the middle of junior year, and I've never felt so alone.

I miss you. I think that is the biggest reason I'm writing this. Although, I'm not sure how this is going to reach you. Maybe it won't, but Dad told me that writing down exactly what's going on in my head might help me get through it better.

Six months have passed, Gilbert. And I still don't know what to do with you gone.

What else is there to say?

Yours,

Matthew


	2. November 20, 2012

November 20, 2012

Dear Gilbert,

Today school was let out early for fall break. Alfred spent the entire car ride home complaining to Papa about the fact that we we're going to the beach for the break instead of staying home.

Papa simply shook his head and sighed irritably. "Calm down, mon petite. We're going to have fun."

"I don't want to calm down! Everyone is having parties this week and I'm going to miss _all_ of them!"

"You'll live."

I contented myself with staring at the window. It figures that Alfred is complaining. He always is, there's no surprise there. But I don't like complaining. It isn't worth the effort whining about something that you can't change.

In fact, I look forward to going to the beach. Our beach house is right next to the water, and the different color leaves in contrast with the light sand is absolutely breathtaking.

Gilbert, I don't know why I'm telling you this. It was you that first pointed it out to me.

When we arrived home, Dad was in one of his moods. I steered directly towards my room, knowing that it was best not to mess with him when he was like that. But after I planted myself down on my bed and began to read, I heard a loud groan from the front room.

"Oh, come _on! _Why did you turn my Xbox off?!"

"Because you are going to bloody come outside and help me rake the front yard before we leave, Alfred!"

"Why doesn't Matt have to help!?"

Sometimes I hate my brother.

I spent a good portion of my afternoon raking the front and backyard while Alfred watched and barely did anything. Then about halfway through, he snuck off to go to the bathroom and never came back. Funny thing is, I didn't mind.

Although winter is my favorite season, I love the middle of fall when the air is crisp and the leaves are turning all kinds of bright colors. As I let out my breaths in wispy puffs, I took the time to look out over the trees in our backyard that lead to the woods.

I think nature is amazing. Beautiful and amazing. Not many people take the time to look around them; enjoy what's right in front of their eyes. I often wonder to myself how our lives would be different if there were no internet, no TVs, no video games. Do you think people would be smarter, Gilbert? Do you think the world would be more peaceful? More advanced, even? Would they have found a cure for cancer yet?

Would they have been able to cure you?

You were the only person who didn't laugh at my ideas, Gilbert.

Yours,

Matthew


	3. November 21, 2012

November 21, 2012

Dear Gilbert,

The car ride to the beach house last night was torturous. A good two hours were spent listening to Papa and Dad fight over which routes to use and Alfred complain about how long it was taking to get us there. Even with my iPod blasting in my ears, I could still hear the bickering and whining.

By the time that we had arrived at the house, I was about ready to push Alfred out the open window. I swung open my door and jumped out of the car as we were pulling up to the curb, ignoring Dad's angry protests. And there it was. The same house that it had always been.

We haven't been to the beach house since you died, Gilbert. I thought I was ready for it.

Why is everything the same? Even now as I write this and look around my room. The same faded blue curtains, the same darkly paneled wooden floors, old wobbly dresser. The same red blotch from when Alfred and I were drinking juice boxes after Dad had specifically told us not to. The same rip in the sheets. Gilbert, why is everything the same?

Nothing is the same anymore.

Or at least, it shouldn't be.

I feel like this room, this house, this world shouldn't be allowed to stay the same. It wouldn't be fair. I know that sounds selfish, Gilbert. But forgive me for the time being.

Everything in this house reminds me of you. And it hurts.

The table. Do you remember in third grade when we hid under it and drew all over the bottom with permanent marker? And how angry Papa was with us when he found out?

And the ocean outside. Do you remember teaching me to swim, Gilbert? In the sixth grade.

You had said to me, "Birdie, life is short. If you don't learn now, when will you?"

The irony is killing me.

Last night, I couldn't sleep. My head was buzzing with memories of you. Your voice, your hands. Your smile.

The times that we walked all the way down the beach to that ice cream parlor. The one on the boardwalk with the cones that tasted like cardboard. It was gross and crappy, but you always said it had character.

You always ordered the craziest flavor that they had on that week end, no matter how disgusting it looked. "Pays to be adventurous!" You'd tell me. "If you always get maple, how will you know it's your favorite flavor? You don't have anything to compare it to!" Then you would take a bite of yours, and if you found it gross, I'd let you eat the rest of mine.

You would turn to me with that smile on your face, bright and breathtaking.

Gilbert, I lived for that smile.

You know what else? Last night, laying in the dark, my eyes following the circles of the fan on the ceiling, I realized something. Something important that I never got to tell you.

I suppose it would be too late to tell you that I'm in love with you.

Yours,

Matthew


	4. November 22, 2012

November 22, 2012

Dear Gilbert,

I think the entire rest of my fall break is ruined. It'll probably be weeks before Dad and Papa trust me again.

This morning, Alfred was sprawled on the couch, complaining again. This time it was about the fact that there was nothing to do here. Usually I would agree, saying as there's no internet or cable TV, but lately, I've found myself not caring. Just sitting down outside and thinking of you has seemed to occupy all of my time.

But in the middle of Alfred's whining, Dad finally slammed his paper down on the table in annoyance. "Fine! Fine, you're bored! Entertain yourself, then! Go to the boardwalk, go bloody walk the beach! You don't need electronics!"

As usual, the issue was resolved with Dad's yelling. He's always been the only one able to get Alfred to shut up.

Alfred perked up immediately at the idea of going to the boardwalk. And guess who he decided to drag along with him, Gilbert?

Papa thought it was a fabulous idea, patting me on the top of the head and smiling. "Fresh air is good for you, Mathieu. You haven't gone out in a while, non?"

And so I was forced to change out of my pajamas and pushed out the door, along with Al.

It's been weeks since Alfred has really talked to me, Gilbert. I figured that he just didn't care. He was never that close to you, and while he mourned for a week or two, after that it was the past, and he was already hopping from party to party, friend to friend, as usual. Not like I was surprised. He'd always been like that- never dwelling on the past, living life for each day.

So when he said those words to me, sounding serious, sounding almost… _concerned_? I wasn't sure what to think.

"Matt… why aren't you trying harder?"

Silence.

"Wh-what…? What do you mean?"

"I mean, why aren't you trying harder?"

"…Trying harder?"

"You don't talk to anyone anymore. You don't _do_ anything anymore. I know that Gilbert's…_ passing_… was really hard for you. I know he was your closest friend, but you're pushing everyone away. You could make things so much easier for yourself, you know. By just clearing your mind and not sitting around in your grief. You need to get a grip, Matt. Try harder."

The thought had never really occurred to me. Am I not trying hard enough to get over you?

No one understands me like you did, Gilbert. They don't understand that my way of trying is by alienating myself. Even I don't fully understand it.

I've had this conversation numerous times. With guidance counselors, with my parents, with teachers. And with myself.

His words hurt me. I don't know why, and I don't think I'll ever know why. Never know what in his words caused me to do what I did.

I ran.

The opposite direction of the boardwalk, tears blurring my vision, I ran. Ignoring Alfred's calls behind me, pushing myself forward, faster, faster.

I don't understand anything I do anymore.

My legs brought me to our place, Gilbert.

It was looking worse for the wear in the months that we hadn't been there to clean it up. The wood rotting, the paint chipping, covered in sand and dust. Our tree house. I couldn't take it. Seeing it like that, falling apart. It made me feel as if my heart had plummeted into my stomach, rotting. It made your death seem too real for me to take.

So I cleaned it up.

I'm not sure how long I was out there, brushing away the dirt, picking off the moss and fungus with my fingernails.

The memories seemed to come at me from all different directions as I worked.

The summer of second grade. Standing in the aisle of the Home Depot, three dollars shoved into your pocket. "We need to get red! Red is the bestest color!" You'd said, and I'd nodded eagerly in agreement.

Your disappointment when you found out that you didn't have enough. Then our arms full of tiny bottles of sample paint as we walked back. Blues and greens and yellows and purples. No red. There was no more red. "One day it will be red," you'd said. "But we'll have to work with what we've got for now."

The hours spent building it. Dad had offered to help, but we'd shook our heads, convinced we could do it ourselves.

The ending result.

The tiny tree house looked as if it were on the brink of falling apart, but we both knew that it would hold fine. The rainbows of colors- every color but red- that shone in the light. So many colors that every person that walked by couldn't help but stare at our work of art.

"Remember, Birdie! This is our clubhouse and no one else is allowed!" You'd said. Put out your hand and smiled. "Shake on it. No one else is allowed in. Not even Alfred!"

More memories, faster now.

You take my hand slowly, hesitantly. I don't pull away.

You smile at me and run a hand through my hair.

"Birdie… you're never allowed to be with anyone but me." Your voice is soft, light.

At some point, I fell asleep.

It must have been a while, because I woke to a flashlight in my face, and a pair of worried green eyes.

Dad.

I blinked in the light, unsure of what was going on before Dad turned and called behind him. "Francis! Francis, I found him!"

"Oh!" Papa's voice carried over the wind, relief and worry slicked over his tone.

I don't remember much. Papa slipping one arm under my legs, the other supporting my back. I can feel the tears leaking from my eyes. Although, I'm not sure why they're there.

In Papa's arms, enclosed in warmth, I closed my eyes once more, drowning in the night around me.

When I awoke for the second time, I was in bed. My clock says that it's almost twelve.

Gilbert… Nothing is making sense anymore.

Yours,

Matthew


	5. November 23, 2012

November 23, 2012

Dear Gilbert,

When I got up this morning, I was afraid to go downstairs. I wasn't sure what Papa and Dad were going to say, and the last thing I needed was for them to be mad at me. So I stayed in my bed as long as I could. Even when I heard the door creak open, I closed my eyes and feigned sleep.

But around noon, I got out of bed, unable to lie there any longer. I slipped on my red hoodie and jeans, put on my glasses, then padded down to the bathroom and locked the door behind me.

Gilbert, I barely recognize myself anymore.

My hair matted and greasy, tangled and lifeless. My face pale and drawn, making the dark purple under my eyes stand out all the more. My fingernails have been chipped down to bloody stubs, from both biting them and from using them to scrape the moss off the walls of our clubhouse. I think I've lost weight, Gilbert. The pants that used to fit snuggly around my waist are now too big. Even my hoodie feels loose around my shoulders. I was already pretty scrawny before, but now I can see my ribs poking on my chest.

It wasn't until I was back in my room that I realized it.

I look dead, Gilbert.

And the worst part is that I'm not surprised.

Yours,

Matthew


	6. November 24, 2012

November 24, 2012

Dear Gilbert,

I've been in my room for two days, only leaving to go to the bathroom or get something from the fridge. I haven't uttered a word to anyone.

I've spent all of my time laying on my bed, letting you fill my mind. There are so many memories, Gilbert. Each one different and bringing a different kind of feeling- sadness, anger, delight. Love.

Do you remember in eighth grade when you brought me to that amusement park by the water? There was one ride that I'd seen countless times, and watched Alfred go on at least a million. The Super Spinner, the orange ride that spins you upside down while you're going in circles.

I had started to walk the opposite way, avoiding the ride entirely, when you had tugged on my collar, pointing to it. I quickly shook my head to show that I wasn't at all interested. But you wouldn't have it. You showed me your brilliant smile and said, "Come on, it'll be fun!"

In a minute, you had managed to persuade me to go on the ride that Alfred had tried to drag me onto for years.

The line was long, and standing there, my stomach rotating in circles, I felt as if I didn't have enough air. I began to tremble, squeezing my eyes tight and trying to reach my happy place- when I felt a hand slip into mine.

"Birdie… you scared?" you'd asked, giving my hand a firm squeeze.

"… J-just a little…"

You shook your head and gave me a small smile. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. These rides are checked at least weekly for safety. And I don't think anyone's ever fallen off."

I couldn't respond; I was trying my best to not let the tears threatening to spill from my eyes show.

"… Hey," you'd mumbled, leaning down so that our heads were at the same level. "… You know, I'd never let anything happen to you."

My heart skipped, Gilbert. Gripping your hand as hard as I could, I let you lead me to the front of the line, until a teenager with red hair and pimples dotting his face ushered us into a metal cage. He secured the seatbelts. Closed the front of the cage. Locked it.

I could feel my heartbeat in my ears, trembling all over. I was acting like a child. A scared child.

"Birdie. Calm down."

"I-I'm t-trying."

I could feel your gaze as I looked down at the hand that wasn't in yours. Clenching my fist until the skin was white. And then I felt you pull your hand away.

"Birdie?"

I squeezed my eyes tight once again, tears slipping down my cheeks. I was sure that I had ruined it, that you didn't want to be seen with someone so fragile, so easily scared.

But then you did the unthinkable, Gilbert.

You slid a hand around my shoulders, slowly. Then pulled me closer to you, my head almost on your chest.

"Sorry I dragged you onto this, Matt…" You whispered, rubbing circles onto my arm with your thumb.

It seemed like we sat there for an eternity waiting for the ride to squeak, sputter, and then lift us into the air. Heart speeding, halting, faster, slower. My heart would have stopped altogether if not for the beep that signaled the ride was ready to start. A voice, crackly and static, came over the speakers. "Please keep your hands and feet inside the cage at all times and secure any loose items."

You reached over and plucked the glasses from my face, then wiped the tears from my cheeks.

"You're going to lose these," you mumbled, slipping them into my pocket.

Another beep. The cage began to move upward. And I buried my head deep into your shoulder, trying to block out the world around me.

And then we were spinning. Faster and faster, high and low, over and under, we span inside the metal cage, your arm wrapped protectively around me. You began to laugh, high and happy and almost unheard over the creaks and groans of the ride.

"Birdie! Open your eyes for just a second! I promise it'll be worth it!"

I mustered all the courage I had, Gilbert. Looked up from where my face was pressed against your t-shirt.

The world around us was a blur. The colors, spinning, the air blowing against my face. I could see to the ocean, smell the salt. I could see your face. Bright, and smiling, happy.

And you were right. It was worth it.

Yours,

Matthew


	7. November 25, 2012

November 25, 2012

Dear Gilbert,

Today is the last day of break, and by tomorrow I'll be starting another week of school. To tell you the truth, I'm not excited.

I spent the entirety of this morning packing my suitcase, putting all of my unworn clothes inside my duffel bag. Although it should have only taken a few minutes to stuff everything inside, I spent a good two hours packing.

A lot of things that I own remind me of you, Gilbert. I suppose that's why I couldn't help getting lost in memory with each article of clothing.

The red hoodie? Do you remember giving that to me for Christmas in fifth grade? It had been huge. When I put it on, the sleeves went well past my hands and the bottom halfway to my knees. But you had smiled and said, "Red is the best color, and this was the only size they had left in the red. You'll grow into it."

I wore it whenever I could after that, the sleeves rolled up, until I realized with satisfaction that I had, in fact, grown into it. Granted, it had been seventh grade, which was two years after you'd given me the gift, but it's definitely served its purpose. I'm wearing it today, Gilbert.

I've worn it every day since you died.

The shoes that you signed your name on with a sharpie in the middle of math class during freshman year.

The t-shirt that you got me as a souvenir when you visited your relatives in Germany last winter break.

The pants that I wore when you convinced me to skip school for the first time in eighth grade. You grabbed my hand to help me jump the fence, and the right knee had caught on the top and torn.

By the time I was done with the packing, I was already tired out, my head pounding with memories. I sat there for a good hour, Gilbert. Thinking of you.

That was when Papa came in. I hadn't talked to anyone since the incident the other night.

He crossed the room slowly, sitting down on the bed next to me, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned over, and pulled me into his arms, resting his head on top of mine.

We were both silent for a long time.

"You know… I love you very much, mon petite. Your dad loves you too, and although he can be a pain sometimes, so does Alfred."

There was another long pause as the words faded away.

"…I know…"

And then he winked and left. I'm not quite sure what happened, Gilbert. Then again, I guess I'm not sure of anything anymore.

But it was around then that it struck me. Hard, like a brick.

Red.

Within minutes, I had slipped on my sneakers, not bothering to untie and retie them, my ankles sticking out the back. Grabbing a twenty dollar bill from my wallet, I ran out of my room and then down the stairs.

And smacked right into Dad.

"Where's the fire?"

He looked somewhat annoyed, his eyebrows furrowed. I swallowed, knowing that I was treading on pretty thin ice already. "I'll be back in a second. I have to go do something."

Dad looked like he was going to say something, opening his mouth and crossing his arms, but then Papa was behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Go ahead, chéri. Be careful."

He winked at me.

And without a second thought, I ran out the door, stuffing the cash into my pocket. Didn't stop running until, completely out of breath, I reached the Home Depot.

Bought red paint.

Sprinted to our place.

And I painted the tree house red, Gilbert.

"_One day it will be red."_

Yours,

Matthew


	8. November 26, 2012

November 26, 2012

Dear Gilbert,

I just got back from school, and I learned absolutely nothing.

Not that I'm surprised, saying as I barely seem to process anything the teachers say. Their words don't even reach my ears anymore. I don't bother to take notes. Usually, I just stare out the window and watch outside, my thoughts drifting to different things here and there. Mostly it's memories of you, but that goes without saying.

I used to have friends, Gilbert. Remember the small group that we hung out with? I haven't talked to them in months. None of them seem to care about me now that you're not here. They've all gone their different directions now, some better than others.

Feliciano? Remember how he used to make us laugh with his antics, how he used to have a smile that seemed to brighten up an entire room in only a second? Of course, it was nothing compared to yours, but it was almost there.

He's moved on to a different group of friends. They all spend their time at parties, getting wasted and sleeping around. On top of that, he's dating Ludwig. He used to joke about going out with your younger brother, as if he would never dream of it, but the moment you were gone, the two were attached like glue. You were right about them, Gilbert.

And his brother, Lovino? He's gotten into some real trouble since you died.

A month or two ago, a teacher found him and Sr. Fernandez making out in the supply closet next to the gym. Although the student body seemed in utter shock, I wasn't so astonished by the news. I had picked up the hints here and there when we used to hang out. He used to make excuses whenever we asked him to come with us, always different, but involving Sr. Fernandez. He had to go get the Spanish notes. He was being tutored by Sr. Fernandez by his parent's request. And the time in the middle of class when he accidently called Sr. Fernandez by his first name. He had blushed deeply, mumbled an apology, and every one had moved on.

At the time, it seemed innocent enough.

He was expelled, and Sr. Fernandez was fired. Now Spanish is taught by some substitute that has no idea how to speak the language.

Roderich? Do you remember how much he hated me, Gilbert? How much he loathed me for being close to you? He was crazy about you. You never noticed, but I could always tell. The way his eyes sparkled when you talked to him, how he blushed like mad when you teased him.

When you died, he changed. He's gone downhill. I heard his grades have dropped dramatically. He's been skipping class, sometimes not showing up for days at a time.

Sometimes I wonder to myself where everyone would be if you hadn't died.

Yours,

Matthew


	9. November 27, 2012

November 27, 2012

Dear Gilbert,

Today after school, I didn't feel like going home straight away. Lately my mind has become more and more fuzzy, sometimes leaving me wondering whether I'm in a memory or reality.

Figuring that some fresh air would clear my head, I went to one of the only places that I feel truly close to you, Gilbert.

I went to your grave.

The wind was blowing wisps of my hair around my face as I walked; my hands stuffed in my hoodie pockets. Winter is coming faster this year than usual. It feels as if fall has barely started, and it's already cold enough for my nose to turn a bright, burning red, and my cheeks to freeze as I walked, my breath coming out in puffs of fog that disappeared on the breeze.

It took me a good ten minutes of walking, but I needed it. The cold cleared my mind a bit, my thoughts not as jumbled and not jumping on top of each other as much. And when I finally reached the graveyard, it made it easier for me to focus on not trampling on top of the other graves so that I could get to yours.

You are right in the back, Gilbert. I think you have the best spot in the whole graveyard, right underneath a shady oak tree. Right now the leaves on the oak are gone, but it's still pretty.

And right underneath the first branch, that heart I carved after your funeral.

_M+G_

I've visited your grave twice before. Once at your funeral, and once again a month after. But it had been simply too much for me to handle. Both times I couldn't do anything but stare, know that your body was down there beneath the soil; the only thing keeping us apart was death. The thought of your silvery hair, never to shine in the sun again, your eyes never to stare at me the loving way they always had. I couldn't take it, so I'd decided not to come back.

But not today. Today, I sat down, Gilbert. And without planning to, I told you everything.

Told you about the old group of friends. About the beach house. About painting the clubhouse. About my grades slowly dropping. About how much I missed you. About the winter. About my plans for the future. About the fact that my mind seems broken, like a scratched DVD that skips back to the same part over and over. Told you about Papa and Dad and Alfred and school and how everything is different now. About how I'm writing every day to a person who will never be able to answer.

I'm not sure when it was, but in the middle of it all, I began to cry. The kind of cries that are loud, and painful, and take the breath from your lungs, leaving you panting, willing yourself to stop. But the tears wouldn't stop coming, Gilbert. One after another, flowing down my cheeks.

I would give anything to have you here with me. You brightened so many lives.

Gilbert, I think it should have been me.

Forever yours,

Matthew


	10. November 28, 2012

November 28, 2012

Dear Gilbert,

Last night, I dreamt of the day we met.

Even now, I can remember every detail. Exactly what you were wearing. The way the breeze smelled like the end of summer, and warmth of the pavement under me.

It had been the first day of first grade. The first year that I'd ever been in a class without Alfred.

We'd gone to a tiny kindergarten school at the church, the one on the corner of Main Street with the small fenced-in playground on the side. I'm not sure how I would have made it without Alfred, who'd stuck up for me and introduced me to other kids when I was too quiet to do so myself. He did all the talking, and I did have a friend or two, but they were really more Alfred's friends than mine.

I was preparing myself for another year like that, Gilbert. But upon our kindergarten teacher's request, we were spilt up, as she thought it would be better for me to branch out and learn how to stick up for myself.

I was terrified, Gilbert.

Completely overwhelmed.

Recess. The playground was huge, so much bigger than the one I had played on before, with the plastic slide and monkey bars. There were kids from first grade all the way up to fourth grade playing on the equipment, roughhousing, throwing mulch at one another until a recess monitor walked up and chewed them out.

I found myself unable to say a word. Even when a kid threw a handful of mulch at me and, grinning playfully, waited for me to throw some back. But I didn't want to play anything like that. I did what I knew how to do, Gilbert. I walked over to the blacktop, and sat alone on the curb, sighing softly.

And then I heard a teacher blow a whistle and yell at a small first grader that I recognized from my class. Silver hair and an eagle t-shirt. She shouted at him, pointed towards the curb. I managed to hear her say, "Go and sit on the curb! You can think about your poor choices over there!"

And as you approached, stepped closer, I found myself closing my eyes tightly, hoping that you wouldn't decide to sit next to me. There was a whole, wide curb. Of all the places to sit, you didn't have to sit next to me.

And you sat next to me. Directly next to me, close enough so that you could lift your hand and tap my forehead. My stomach tightened nervously in the awkward atmosphere.

"What'd you do?"

I blinked and turned, a bit surprised that you had decided to talk. Especially to me, someone obviously uncomfortable with the situation. I opened my mouth to reply, but at that moment, my voice had disappeared, as if it were no longer there. I blushed deeply, finding that I wasn't able to speak without Alfred there to back me up.

I shrugged. More silence. Long and awkward.

"…You're weird."

I turned again, eyebrows furrowed. Unsure of what to say, I nervously shrugged once more, and then inched slowly in the other direction, trying to scoot away.

You didn't get the hint, Gilbert. You scooted right back next to me.

"Don't you talk?" You'd asked, tilting your head a bit and curiously poking my cheek.

I didn't answer, and simply took to playing with the ends of my hair.

"You're weird." You'd repeated, nodding as if confirming your last statement.

I figured you would drop it after that. Get bored with me and turn the other way, looking for some other way to entertain yourself. Most people did after talking to me for a while. I would invite kids from my old class to come over and play, but after even as little as twenty minutes, they had abandoned me for Alfred. I would sit up in our room, watching them run in and out of the swing set from the window. I was used to it.

Yet, after another long pause, you poked my shoulder.

"This morning we were supposed to tell everyone our names. I didn't hear yours, 'cuz you're real quiet."

I had blushed awkwardly at that, my eyes stuck straight on the ground. That morning had been hard for me, as we had gone around the circle to introduce ourselves. When they had gotten to me, I had swallowed and squeaked out my name in a voice that was lost on the chattering of the other kids.

"My name is Gilbert. 'Cept, I don't really like that name too much. My dad should have named me something awesomer!" You'd smiled a toothy, seven-year-old smile. "Like Killer! Oh, or Falcon!"

I looked up a bit, tucking a strand of my slightly long hair behind my ear. I was surprised to find you looking at me happily, as if glad to have someone that you could rant to. I remember thinking that you had a nice smile.

"Can you at least tell me your name?"

As I had before, I kept silent, wishing more than anything that Alfred was there to coach me through it. To push me forward and say, "Come on, Mattie. Tell 'em your name!" But he wasn't there, and it hit me with a start that he wouldn't be all year. I blinked back tears.

"Well, if you don't tell me one, I'm gonna to have to call you _something_."

I stayed soundless, rolling a piece of gravel between my fingers.

"You're quiet... and pretty. Like a girl." You'd remarked, not filtering what you'd said as innocent kids tended to do.

I blushed deeply at that comment, not sure whether it had been a compliment or an insult. Like a girl… Papa had often said that I had a delicate figure, and that I should be grateful for it, because it was beautiful. He had gone on to say something else too, but not before Dad had smacked him in the back of the head angrily, remarking that it wasn't appropriate to talk like that.

"You know what else are pretty like that? Birds!"

You waited a few seconds for me to speak, then cleared your throat and moved on.

"Birds are my favoritest animals ever! I like big ones, like falcons, and eagles, but I also like smaller ones. Like woodpeckers, and hummingbirds, and Yellow Grosbeaks, and Bluethroats, and Rosefinches. Did you know that my dad is letting me get a bird for my birthday this year? He said, 'Gil, you can have a dog for your birthday this year, if you want one.' And you know what I said? I said, "Nope, Dad, I want a bird.' So he told me that if I have good behavior until my birthday, he's going to bring me down to the pet shop and let me pick one out. " You finished your impressive story still smiling. "Maybe, since you're my friend, you can come!"

I blushed, my eyes widening as I looked up at your face. Friend? I hadn't spoken a word to you, and you considered me a friend? I remember thinking that was odd.

"I'm going to call you Birdie. 'Cuz you're pretty and quiet."

And then I was flushing even deeper, my cheeks crimson. I nodded slowly, and you tugged at a strand of my hair.

"Birdie, why are you all alone over here?"

I don't know what compelled me to speak, Gilbert. Maybe it was because you were being so friendly towards me. I had never really experienced someone talking to me without Alfred's help. It had always been Alfred introducing me to others. Alfred telling off kids for teasing me. Alfred making sure that I was talking back. And I wanted that to change. I just wasn't sure how to change it.

There was a long pause, Gilbert. And finally, after a while, the words found their way out.

"B-Because… m-my brother isn't h-here…"

Silence as the words sunk in.

You blinked, surprised that I had spoken. Tilting your head to the side, your eyebrows furrowed lightly. "Your brother?"

I nodded. "My b-brother… h-he's n-not here t-to help m-me," I mumbled, my eyes filling slowly with tears that I had been trying my best to hold in. "I-I don't know h-how t-to… b-be seen without h-him here." The tears began to spill over my cheeks, and I sniffled, wiping at my nose. "I-I'm sorry..."

You had stared at me for a while, not moving, not making a sound. The sounds around us of kids screaming and laughing seemed distant, as if we weren't really there, but instead in our own bubble.

Just when I thought the silence was going to deafen me, you moved closer, putting your tiny hand on mine.

"I like you, Birdie. I'll protect you, okay?" You smiled at me, ruffling my hair. "Don't cry."

I think that was when I began to love you, Gilbert.

"Stick by me, Birdie."

"…M-my name i-is Matthew…"

"I like Birdie better."

When I awoke, there were tears in my eyes. Gilbert, I don't know how long I'm going to last without you here to protect me.

Forever yours,

Matthew


	11. November 29, 2012

November 29, 2012

Dear Gilbert,

When I got home today, Papa and Dad were screaming at each other.

And it was about me.

"I don't know what else to do about it, Francis! He barely comes out of his room anymore!"

"I know, but sending him _there_?! Mon Dieu, how will that help anything?!"

"I don't know! Maybe it will knock some sense into him! I got a call from his teacher today, Francis! He's failing _three subjects_! When I was in school, I was student body president, I got straight A's! You had too many friends to count! Matthew does _nothing_ anymore!"

Silence. I let the words sink in. Send me away? To where?

"…Arthur… I don't think sending him away will help anything."

Dad furrowed his eyebrows, leaning forward on the kitchen counter, and putting his head in his hands. A loud silence filled the pause as I watched, too surprised to do anything. "…Then what else am I supposed to do..?"

Guess what happened after that, Gilbert? Dad started crying.

I haven't seen dad cry since the funeral. On that day, I had looked over, the tears blurring my vision and my body numb. He had been sniffling, wiping at the tears on his cheeks. And he had reached over and grabbed my hand, rubbing circles into it with his thumb.

Before the funeral, Dad had never cried before. At least not in front of me. I was shocked, Gilbert.

But standing the doorway, my backpack slung over my shoulder, seeing Dad break down into tears like that was too much. He was crying because of me. Because of my behavior, my depression.

I saw Papa move and pull Dad in by his waist, wrapping his arms around him and moving his hands slowly through Dad's hair. He rested his head on top of Dad's and began murmuring soft words. "Shh… We'll figure something out… I promise…"

And then I turned and went back outside. In a last minute decision, I grabbed my bike and began to bike towards the graveyard. For the second time in a week.

And I did my homework on your grave, tears slipping down my face.

Forever yours,

Matthew

* * *

**Author's Note: Well. I know it's a bit late in the story, but hi.**

**Until now, I never put an Author's note because I believed it took away from the story, kind of ruined the endings. For each ending in the story, my intention was for the last few words to really pack a punch and make you think for a few seconds before clicking on the next chapter.**

**But I had to say something.**

**I just needed to say thanks. For all the reviews, all the followers, and all the favorites on my story. It feels so amazing to see that readers have been touched by Dear Gilbert. Seriously, you guys are all awesome. Dear Gilbert just kind of started out as that first letter, which sat on my computer for a good month. I wasn't sure where to go with it. Then the weirdest thing hit me. All my ideas just kind of popped into my head (and this is going to sound really weird) while I was raking the yard.**

**Anyway, I don't mean to ramble, but a huge, huge thanks to _every_ person whose read, reviewed, followed, and favorited. It's really uplifting to get a review that inspires you to write more and to see all the people that want to continue reading.**

**Keep the reviews coming! And again, thank you! 3**


	12. November 30, 2012

November 30, 2012

Dear Gilbert,

When I got home today, Papa was waiting for me. As was reaching for the door handle, the bus driving away in a swirl of dust and road pebbles, the door opened. Papa stood there, arms crossed over his chest and a grave look on his face.

"Mathieu… Will you talk with me, please?"

I've always felt that Papa understands me better than Dad does. Even when I was younger, Papa had always been better at communicating with me than Dad. He's always seemed to understand me better. Still, I never really talked to him. From first grade, when I had been troubled, I never went to my parents like Alfred had. Never ran up to them with my problems when I needed help.

I always went to you, Gilbert. When I needed a shoulder to cry on, when I wanted someone to talk to, you were the first person that came to my mind.

Maybe because I felt like you were the only one who would really listen.

Because of that, I've never formed much of a relationship with my parents. So when Papa told me to sit, told me that we needed to talk, I wasn't sure how to react.

"L-Leave me alone." I tried to shift to the right so I could walk by, but Papa caught me by my shoulders with his strong, but gentle grip.

"Please." He looked down at me, his eyes pleading and his mouth set in a firm line. He didn't seem to show any sign of moving over, letting me move past. Slowly, I nodded.

Sitting on the couch in our living room, he patted the spot next to him, and I hesitantly sat down.

"What is going on, mon cher?"

Gilbert, how was I supposed to answer that? Even I don't know anymore.

I shrugged.

"Your Dad and I are worried about you, Mathieu," he said quietly. "All I'm asking is that you tell me."

I shook my head.

"Mathieu..," he sighed, putting his face in his hands. "Dad is about ready to send you away from here. Thinks it will be good for you to get away. I don't know where he wants you to go yet, but I don't want that to happen."

I tried to look a bit surprised, like I hadn't already known from their previous conversation that Dad wanted me gone. A long silence ensued, wrapping me up in my thoughts. Leaving? The idea hurt. I couldn't imagine leaving the town that I had grown up in for more than a week at a time. The town that I had met you in. All the memories.

"Mon petite, I just want to understand."

Blinking back tears, I stood. Looked back at Papa, whose head was still in his hands.

"So do I."

Forever yours,

Matthew


End file.
